Gallery
by Windowbox
Summary: Old news, new life. A bitter past, a brighter path. Sometimes the wait is for someone else to bring the light.
1. Tequila Flaw

"It's freezing in here."

Is it? I hadn't noticed, maybe it is. I've been busy.

"Are you working again?"

The excitement in her voice is almost almost palpable, it would have made me stop at one time and grin with her. Ignoring her makes her honeyed tones wispy and faint. It dies when she gets closer and can see what I've done. She's angry, she's angry so much lately it's almost comical. It shows itself in her stance and her voice. Thank you Clause 9, how to 'Terminate your Agreement.'

"Why do you always use on the bench against the wall? The light is better in the middle here."

Like she would know. She has never made anything from nothing with her bare hands, the presumption makes mine start to shake. She would be so easy to break apart. Like she broke me. It wasn't her hands though, it was words, nothing but words and a past tense.

Her tone spins and crashes against the exposed brick and arched ceiling of the studio. The answer about the bench is so she has to walk across the room to get to me. So I have warning. I crush the clay shape on the bench, it probably wasn't any good anyway, not my area of expertise, so to speak. Cathartic I was hoping, once I knew what it was, but not even that, now. I came to start over, forgetting that I'm not done yet. How could I forget? She would never allow me that, not yet. Two more weeks, just two.

"I brought the proofs."

My hands _are_ cold. Maybe the room is cold, it didn't have my attention so it didn't matter. What I was doing, was more important, until it wasn't. I _remember_ being this absorbed by what I do, ploughing my soul into every stroke, I yearn for the oblivion I had seconds ago. My words puff out, hot against my lips, into the frigid air.

"I don't care."

Cold is better for the clay, I could always get sharper detail in it when it's cold.

"I want you to see them anyway."

Laughter rattles hollow between us, the cruel kind, the kind of sound the bad guy owns on old Bond films.

The tool I'm using bounces off the wall, I can hear it stick, blade first in the bench with a thunk behind me while I turn. It's probably safer that way.

The A3 sized mock-up of a full color poster shivers in her hands. Her efforts to keep it steady are laughable. My face is black and white, in one corner, the size of my fist. I scale it up in my head, it will turn out life-sized or thereabouts. It has no right being there, nothing before has used my face, why start now, other than to piss me off? All I know is the by-line is supposed to scream 'Final Show.' It does. That's all that matters. She knows it too. I don't have a veto on this stuff, the whole scene is pointless to make a point.

"I want it changed."

The center piece is a rendition of one of my early bronzes. Her movement is making the outline blurry. From the fuzzy background, it must have been taken in her gallery before it got flogged and famous. Pedestal, spot light, price tag.

Me too. It makes me sick. Made me sick. Clause 9 was nothing if not a blessed release.

It will hit every subway and billboard within her reach. My money, her contacts, anyone in Art with a pulse will hear about it.

"No."

Blonde hair gets tossed behind her shoulder with a shake of her head. She used to be so pretty, when the inside matched the outside. I don't find her pretty now, I might have driven her away through inattention, but I never made her hop into bed with someone else, she did that all by herself. She was always pushing for more pieces, they don't appear out of fresh air. I could never really make her understand how long they took to create, how long and how much of _me._

She still looks pretty on the outside, to others, the lines of her face are beautifully drawn in every respect, she is flawless in proportion, her own Work of Art, where everything is tight, tidy and toned. It happened about the same time making out became an unacceptable waste of time. About the time making love became rezoned as nothing more than a workout. When did being fucking perfect suck all the fucking fun out of everything? I think it was around the same time, I don't know, my work kept me under her spell, kept me under, until I couldn't breathe.

I wonder if her personal trainer still makes her count reps at night, when I'm done doing twenty you can cum. Does that make it better for her? Is Mr Fit better than me? One side of my face draws up in spite of my attempt to school it blank, I can feel my shoulders rise and my triceps tense to punch out someone who is not even here. She is here, just her and her shitty choices. I try to make it stop, to make myself share the blame, but can't make myself feel it. There is too much bitter in the way. I forgot to eat today, I was that far gone. I don't know what the time is, other than through the tall windows lining one wall, it looks like it's getting dark outside. My insides are growling, I am running on empty in so many ways.

Dried clay flakes off my skin. My fingertips are cold on the warmer skin of my palm, where the butt of the tool has rubbed latent callouses raw in the corners. Neither of us are surprised by the answer I give her. It's what she came for after all.

The fight.

The win.

"I hate it."

"Good."

I can feel my mouth twist into the smile she loathes, the one that says, 'I'm all out, we're done. The one that says, 'it's been good, baby, but it's all over now.' _And there's nothing you can do._

Avoiding the pale, furious face above the quivering sheaf of papers is the most fun I have had with another human being today. Actually, this is the only physical interaction I have had with another human being today.

The color staining her cheeks makes her look like a child's porcelain doll with pale skin and too bright hair with too bright cheeks, a too bright mouth and lashes too long to be real. The sort of doll that is only for admiring, pristine and preserved behind perspex for the next generation to revere. Too bad the inside is hollow. I can't quite help myself striking back, although it would be easier to hit something, anything.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

I turn my back, lean my hands on the edge of the work bench and wait for the sound of staccato footsteps to fade. She catches her heel somewhere near the door. I don't turn, I don't ask if she is all right. I tell myself I don't care, not anymore, until it feels like it might be true.

The door snags and slams. My head sinks below the level of my shoulders, the muse has flown, replaced by the unsettling thought of the future. I see shapes in my head and form them with my hands, into things people want to buy and adore. I don't know marketing, I don't know the market, I only know what I do. I don't know what the future looks like any more. I don't know how to make it real, except one day at a time. Two weeks, then we'll see what life looks like on the other side.

My fingers find the bundled up damp cloth from where I threw it this morning. I rewrap the misshapen lump of clay. The remainder of a half formed infant, curled in on itself like a Da Vinci image of the womb's purpose fulfilled, disappears like it never existed. I never got to the face, just roughed out the toes, worked out how the tiny hands would be, one open, one closed. I was texturing the umbilical cord when she came in.

Hell if I knew what I was thinking coming here. The way I was feeling, I was lucky I didn't open a vein. I thought I was over this. So very over it.

I follow the edge of the counter top to the sink and fumble for the taps, half turn on the left, quarter turn on the right. My face is wet, I share it with the inside elbow of my sleeve. Stupid to want, stupid to grieve for a bundle of cells before it was anything at all, only to find that wasn't mine to start with. I'm all for a woman's right to choose, but damn, that shit is cold.

The water is only lukewarm, but it still sends pins and needles shooting through my hands. Now I think about it, the room is cold. I can still see my breath, gulping now to make myself sane. I used to keep a bottle here, but I'm better than that.

The basin goes dark and lighter in turns, like an animal pelt, moving in twilight. In clay it would be deep, harsh strokes for shadow, finer work where the moon catches it. Something fleet would be a good subject, a fox after a rabbit. It would be a one of a kind, like everything else I've done.

The alarm on my cell vibrates twice. Maybe Kate's timing wasn't so bad. It means the car will be downstairs. On a whim I take the clay with me.

Put out the lights, lock up, I track downstairs keeping an eye on my wayward feet. I have fallen here before, in spectacular fashion, from halfway to the very bottom, too weary to save myself. Before, before, before. Before me staying up working was better than seeking her between the sheets and getting pasted for wanting, wanting a warn hand in mine instead of the cold touch of clay. Two weeks. My embittered sneakers are almost as grey as the tawdry cinder block.

The outer door slams behind me. It's full dark outside and bitter here too. I don't have enough layers to linger, I light up anyway and drag a kind of peace inside me.

Jaz doesn't wear a suit and cap. I told him on the first day I didn't care what he wore when he picked me up, as long as it was decent and he was there. His company didn't like it and I offered him his own deal. He came. I owe him. I know he has a baby on the way.

I offer with a gesture and a nod, it's only polite after all. He declines.

"You can't smoke in the car."

"I know." After a while I put it out with my heel.

"I'm ready."

"Have you eaten today?"

"No."

"I'm taking you home."

He takes me to his. It says something when the hired help care more for me than I do myself.

His place is tiny. The foot print would fit inside of my kitchen, my place is obscene for one person. Alice, his wife, is enormous, two weeks from popping out a matching pair, tired, cheery and empathic to a level that I find both endearing and embarrassing.

I get a hug that I am too choked to return.

She puts my hand on her belly and I drop to my knees, pressing my ear again her distorted form. I wanted, I wanted this.

"Did he eat today?" she says over my head to Jasper. I know he tells he no, by the way her hands move to rest on my head and swat at my ear.

She says she is cooking to put food away in the freezer, for when she is too tired to cook when she is nursing. She wants me to share it, she can make more. I am too tired to eat, but I swear she would feed me herself if I don't. She sits with me to be sure I finish.

"The spare room is made up."

I know they got it ready at the same time the Nursery got painted up, so one or other could sleep undisturbed by night feeds. They look out for each other these two. I wanted that too, same as my Mom and Dad when they were alive. I shake my head. It means Jaz turning out again to run me home, but I need to wake up where I know where I am.

"Thanks, but.."

"I know. The offer is always open."

It says something that they would adopt me like the child I'm not.

I don't watch them hug each other, it makes me feel hollow.

The run home is quiet.

"Kate came today," I say, filling up the darkness.

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, unsettling in their intensity. I rest my hands behind the headrest and arch my aching back.

"You ok, Boss?" His southern drawl is soft. "Want me to say awhile?"

The car drifts to a stop by the curb.

"I'll be fine. Thanks." He doesn't call me on the lie as I exit and bang once on the roof of the car. It waits until I get inside the lobby. I'm only stopping long enough to put the clay in the fridge.

The bar is gritty although it's supposed to be new. I suck down the last of number two and order another. The jukebox blares country undercutting the hubbub of drinkers getting cheap promotional beer. A table of girls makes a lot of noise in the corner. Sat back around it, a blonde and brunette side-eye me on my perch at the other end of the room. A coin gets tossed and lands messily, the blonde slaps a palm over it. She elbows the brunette, who shakes her head and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A chorus of titters amongst the group ebbs with the scrape of a chair.

I shred the label on an empty bottle and watch her sway through the crowd between us, not sure what to expect. It has to have been a bet, the way her shoulders are squared. She doesn't look drunk, but she does move carefully around the throng with a lot of excuse me's and looking down. She smiles up at one guy as they dance the same way once and then once more before passing. It makes me smile too, at her laughing at herself and my stomach tightens before I frown. I haven't felt _that_ in a while.

The brunette pulls an empty stool close to mine and fights her way to the top. He dress is short and black, I make sure her legs go all the way down and all the way right back up again. She flicks her long waves over her bare shoulder, getting an eyeful of her colleagues hoots, rolling her eyes at my behavior I'm sure. I wasn't brought up to be an ass, but I didn't come here to get a pick up either.

"I hope I'm worth it."

"I hope you are too," she mutters, coloring fiercely when she realizes I heard every word. Big brown eyes hunker embarrassed above soft cheekbones that give way to pinked lips and a pointed chin.

"Look I'm real sorry about this, but could you tell me your name?" her voice is husky and shaking. "Then I can leave you alone and you can go back to your beer, ok?" It doesn't sound like pleading, it sounds angry and weary.

"Do you get more if I buy you a drink?" I risk a look over to her table. Their eyes are furtive and rabid.

"A drink?"

"We're in a bar?"

"No, thanks though." Her knee bounces.

"No sweat. Make one up."

"What?"

"Make up a name."

"I can't. It's complicated."

"I'm sure I can keep up." My new beer arrives. "One for the lady," I growl. They must know each other because the barkeep is all about the smile and doesn't ask her what she wants before he plants two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. Lime appears with a dish of salt. She shakes her hair back behind her shoulders except for a stray lock she bats out of the way like she's gearing up for a fight.

I don't know what makes me do it. Devilment or alcohol, or a touch of both. I roll up a sleeve and offer my wrist, laying it next to the salt on the counter

"Lick it, make it look good and I'll tell you."

I'm pretty sure she says "shit" under breath.

I'm pretty sure I would too.

Her lips pout and she blows her cheeks out, barring her teeth at me and scrunching up her nose.

"Don't bite," I warn, drawn to smile by her grimace.

"This is ridiculous," she says, but grips my wrist and leans toward my arm. Her hair falls forwards, brushing softly along the inside of my forearm and hiding her face from sight. The curve of her neck jointing with arch of her shoulder captures a shadow, the way a lover curves over another or a mother over a child. My fingers twitch with the urge to replicate it. Her breath fans across my skin, my fingers tighten against the beer bottle, label forgotten, while I wait, suddenly still.

The tip of her tongue paints a painful circle while I forget to breathe. Her shoulders hunch slightly as she draws back to fill the circle center with a single broad stroke. My heel almost slips off the stool step, throat closing against a noise that would betray me and probably send her running for cover. She flicks her head sideways, looking in up at me alarm from beneath dark lashes. Her cheeks are pink and getting pinker by the second.

Desperately trying to retain some decorum, I try to pull it together, "salt?" She scoots back and I douse the raging burn on my skin with the granules, knowing she is going to do it all over again. I drop one foot to the floor to make a little room downstairs and wonder what it would take to take her home.

She worries her lip while she waits, eyeing the shot, the salt cascading over my skin and sparing a brief glance over her shoulder.

"Go for it," I shrug, voice steady as a rock.

"And then you'll tell me?" challenge lights her eyes.

I nod, gulping against the constriction in my chest. "Do it." I should shut the fuck up. I sound like I'm begging.

Her tongue darts out at the corner of her mouth and she swallows, the long column of her neck hidden and revealed by waves of mahogany arches over me a second time.

I want to see her do it.

My fingers slide through her hair as her lips bless my skin. I push it up and away from her face, over and across the back of her head as her lips fasten and suck, tugging my wrist gently and from within the suction comes the tickle of her tongue tip. Her eyes are closed, lashes curved and deep dark against her cheek. My cock twitches, half hard and uncomfortable under denim stretched tight by my position on the bar stool. I breathe out hard through my nose. The things she could make me feel.

She rises slowly, the blush staining down the front of her throat, into her cleavage. She catches the tequila glass with the tips of her fingers and knocks it way back, squinting against the sharp fumes and clamping down hard on a quarter of lime.

I take the fruit from her lips, rising to cover her from onlookers with my breadth and press my name into her open mouth with my own.


	2. Who's Afraid

A/N The characters are Stephanie Meyer's, if you squint real hard.

"Ok, Romeo, knock it off." The barkeep barks, moving closer. He flicks a cloth over his shoulder and folds his arms so all the veins stand out on his chemically enhanced forearms. I'd step back but her double handed grip is ruining the line on my shirt. I'd say she'd let go if she wanted to. I'd say right now she doesn't. Her warmth bleeds into mine all the way down my front. It wouldn't take much to feel her heat where I want it, a little lower, a little closer. I have to fight my hips from taking it and making a fool of myself. Nine months on the wagon and I've turned into a lightweight in more ways than one. I stare down at her staring up, she worries her lip on one side, it makes her look like she doubts herself or doubts what just happened A chorus of catcalls behind me confirms it really did happen and there were witnesses, as if there was any doubt. It also makes me want to stay right the hell where I am.

This feels more like a blood sport than a couple of girls having a night out on the tiles. I can't say as I understand the pack mentality that goes along with feeding one of their own to the wolves, it's not something guys would ever do. What I do know is that she is not going to be the kill all the time I'm here. I don't examine my motives too closely, I tell myself it's simply humane, that and a growing reluctance not to let space get between us.

"You want to tell me what's going on here?" I set a hand on her upper arm, not tight, just firm enough so she knows exactly where I stand. I might have just laid one on her, but I'm not an animal.

"Let it go, Jake. I can take care of myself," she snaps half turning her head to side-eye the barkeep. His instant scowl tells me it's not what he wanted to hear. There's a something in her voice only a little short of annoyance, mixed with a tinge of exasperation – the sort you'd use to address a dog that won't drop the ball when you want it to. I look between the two of them, trying to work out if there is more going on underneath the surface, it feels like there is, albeit one sided maybe. She has her chin up and mischief in her eye. It's enough to tell me he's tried his hand and failed, maybe also that he needs to see something, to believe that whatever it was is a lost cause. Some guys never see what's right under their noses, me included. She rubbed his face right in it, but then, looking at the possessive set of his shoulders, that's exactly what he needed. He sure is slow to take a hint and back the hell up.

"You know I'm just looking out for you B," he has the audacity to come and lean over the bar. His toothy grin is too tense to be real. A muscle in his jaw ticks in time with the beat on the Jukebox. Bonny croons 'stare just a little too long,' while I think about how I would take him if I had to. I have speed and that's about it. Even leaning down he has height on me, but there's a fine looking lump of tree between us, good thing too since it's the only thing stopping him from actually pissing directly on her leg.

I let my hand slide down to her elbow, then under her forearm to her wrist. Her skin feels like warm silk slipping over my fingers. It doesn't take much to see the goosebumps keeping pace with my touch, she's not cold though, she's well above room temperature. I turn her hand over, palm up in mine and thumb the base of her third finger. No rings here, not even a callous. If she belonged to him once it was a long time ago and didn't so much as leave a mark on her skin. If she _was_ his once, he was one heck of a fool. B watches it happen like it's the most fascinating move ever, before staring up at me again. She risks a grin, sly or shy I'm not too sure before she winks, lacing her fingers securely between mine.

A stray thought about Kate flits like a firebug in the recesses in my mind. Kate always said she didn't need a ring and that relationships were all about what's in the mind, not about what was on paper. Was this what they were? I went along, secure in the blind faith that our promises to each other were enough. Was this his downfall also? I'm having a hard time feeling any pity, it has to be said.

I should have read the signs better with Kate, but I can't read this at all. Maybe he couldn't either. I'm not sure what _this_ is, caught between wary and possibility. There a mixture of taunt and excitement in her voice when she speaks. It's all for him, the way her body twists into mine, we don't need much in the way of words right now.

"Edward was it? I do believe I'd like you to escort me home."

"B, come on," Jake drawls, reaching across the counter. She's off the stool and around the side of me before his grasping paws are anywhere near her.

"I'm not playing, Jake. I said it and I meant it." She tugs my hand gently, backing up away from the bar, turning me so my back is half to the bar and leading me on. I garner a look backwards at the brute complaining like someone took his favorite toy away, then take a step away from sanity, in her direction. He reacts like someone just hit a big old red button and all the sirens in a kilometer radius went off. His palms slapping the counter top are all the priming I need to get us the hell out of dodge.

"B! Goddamn it!"

"Come on!" she hisses, half choked with laughter, half panicked with God only knows what. All I know is that she just turned this in to the best game ever. I crash into her, turning her towards the door and shoving her ahead of me. We stumble together as the side of my sneaker meddles with the heel of her peep toes. I have no idea how she is going to run in those. What I do know is he'll have to get through me to get to her and I need a clearer field and a whole lot more of a headstart if it's up to me.

I bet he could vault the counter if he wanted to. The crash of glass and roar of the crowd tell me he tried it and there were casualties. A muffled thump and a concert of 'ooohhhs' and hissing encourage my hoping that he was one of them.

I bundle us out of the bar, she moves like greased lightning, dodging patrons and furniture and it's all I can do to keep up without falling over my own feet. Reliably the girls at her table hoot and holler as we stumble past. The blonde stands up and waves merrily, shouting "call me!" I didn't notice before, but she has on a cutoff tight black t-shirt bearing the legend 'REAL' in white block capitals. She could be had up for false advertising I swear, but I forgive her when she shoves the table over onto it's side where we passed just seconds before, and right into the path of our pursuer. I can picture the carnage.

Curses follow us out on to the street along with another crash. Whatever we left behind wasn't pretty. She drags me around back to a dimly lit parking lot, heading for the only truck amongst a herd of sleeker stable mates.

"Are you serious?" I'm winded and horrified by the choice of vehicle. Amped up on adrenalin and no idea what the hell is going on or where we go from here, blood pounds in my ears.

"What's the matter, your Daddy never bought you a truck?" the laughter rings out in her voice as she wrenches the driver side door open, the groan of metal is enough to wake the dead, not that she seems to notice, hopping on one foot to lose the heels. "Hurry up, he'll be here any second!"

"You drive this? This actually runs?" I huff, dragging my fingers along the hood's edge to feel my way scooting around to the passenger side. The hood is a weird shape. I don't recognize it or the make which annoys me until fighting with the door handle annoys me more. Eventually I wrench it open, if anything it sounds worse than the driver's side. She snickers under her breath, pulling herself up and into the cab, tossing her shoes into the foot well my side.

"Sure it runs, Jake rebuilt the engine," she chortles, stabbing the key into the ignition. The engine starts with an abnormally throaty growl which ramps up when she pumps the gas pedal. I heave myself quickly on to the seat and crank the damn door shut with a slam, which she follows closely with her own.

"Are you telling me this is his truck?" I have to clear my throat to get rid of the catch in it. It's one thing letting a girl go, it's quite another letting a girl go in your wheels. A shadowy figure rounds the corner into the parking lot. The poor lighting casts him as a huge cartoon character against the corner brickwork that gets bigger as it moves along the side of the building. I can even see him clenching and unclenching his fist in the shadow monster he makes. I'd say fists, but the other one is firmly attached to something that looks a lot like a tyre iron. Over the savage noise the tortured engine is making, I can hear him shout, "Hey!" If anything he sounds more pissed that he was in the bar. We are in so much trouble. Helplessly I scramble for a seatbelt.

"Used to be his truck," she corrects, virtually shaking with laughter. I don't know if that means ownership has formally passed thanks to Daddy or if she is taking it. Now doesn't seem the right time to ask. She revs the engine until the fan belt squeals.

It's only then I realize what the lump on the hood it. Jakes massively overworked forearms are matched by his mechanically enhanced roadster. I can only hope he souped up the brakes at the same time. I have a sinking feeling that she drives like she drinks, on the edge and with no regard for strangers.

She looses the handbrake just as he gets close enough to have me slapping at the door lock. He hurriedly cycles backwards, throwing up his arms to shield his eyes, to avoid the rear of the truck fishtailing through the dirt of the lot and showering him with grit.

"Bella!"

Something bounces off the truck bed with a mechanic clang and I duck reactively, which only serves to make her laugh harder as she wrestles the massive steering wheel under control and we tear out of the parking lot. The tyres shriek as they hit a real road surface and then there is nothing stopping us peeling off into the night.

She wraps her left hand up behind her neck to move her hair to opposite side from me, exposing her slim neck and the shadow of her clavicles. "That's better," she sighs. Her arms are braced, straight and bare, keeping the truck on a steady course, they seem so slight compared to the behemoth she commands – not to mention the contradiction of the truck and her cocktail dress.

Her thigh flexes, double declutching to change up a gear and she catches me looking at the pale skin where it meets the hem of her dress. She shifts to make it rise higher. I swallow and look away. It's one thing being driven by Jaz in a towncar, quite another sitting up front and impotent next to a woman who is doing her level best to torment me.

My fingers twitch.

"Watch the road," I whisper, tempted. Tempting.

"Hmm?" she glances over swiftly and away, back to the blacktop being eaten up beneath us. Her back straightens and her lips part.

"Where are we going?"

I let my fingers drift across the bench seat, stopping a few inches from her flesh, leaving them tapping a soft tattoo on the soft leather.

"Not home that's for sure," she says decisively.

I curl my fingers under and into my palm until it hurts. This isn't what I thought after all. I drop my head back on to the headrest and try to relax my shoulders. Streetlights stripe on and off the ceiling of the cab.

"He'll go there first," she almost whispers. The fun has gone, surpassed by a lingering sadness.

"Make a right. Did he threaten you?

"No, it's not like that. We live together. Not together, together," she corrects.

I get the urge to pass a hand through my hair, but ball my hands in my lap.

"Next left, pull up by the gate and I'll give you the code."

"You live here?" Her tone is same one that I used when I asked if her truck ran.

"I'm house-sitting for a friend." I don't know why the lie, but now it's out I can't take it back. Not without finding out what's going on. I close my eyes. The role of white knight chafes against where I thought we might be going. I curl my lip at myself. She is better than one night stand material. She is better than my dirty little mind playing with her wicked little tongue.

"Edward?" I can hear her rolling down the window, by hand. It squeaks every half turn or so. I can't remember the last car I had that didn't have electric windows. I wonder what she does for a living. I wonder if I let her in if she will ever leave. Part of me thinks that might not be so bad, that perhaps with time we could turn this into something. For all her bravado and the strange juxtaposition of her clothes and her choice of wheels, she exudes an overwhelming sense of vulnerability that makes me want to be around, just in case. Just for tonight.

"3684#"

The code station bleeps after each key press, it sounds like the warning tones just before they use the paddles to restart a heart.


	3. Going Down

The gates slide open soundless and smooth, allowing her to nose the truck forwards. A few yards and we clear the overhang of the entrance to the underground garage, strip lights glare and shadow across painted bays and gleaming advertisements for the underendowed. She won't get to see the expensive emptiness of the lobby this way, but this feels grubby somehow, like I'm sneaking her in. At least she won't have to suffer the solicitous conversation of the concierge. Neither will I. I'm not sure Kate isn't offering him something under the table to keep tabs on me or it could just be the paranoia talking. I didn't tell her I was at the studio today, she found that all by herself – or more likely, with a little help.

The tyres squeak against the non-slip surface as she navigates the concrete jungle. I check to see if she is casing the other cars, but it doesn't look like it. Her lips are folded in like she's concentrating, it makes her look like a kid with a rubiks cube. Half of me wonders if she is thinking about running her fatboys over the overpriced metalwork we are passing. I had to step up to get in the cab, maybe this goes to those rallies you hear about. I try not to picture her in Daisy Duke shorts, but part of me isn't paying attention. I sit up straighter, like I'm looking for where to direct her.

"Visitors spaces are left and then dead ahead."

The engine rumbles loudly in the enclosed space, echoing around and following us on tip toes. We pass residents bays, mostly full, only one stands expectant. I could have got her to park there. I'm not sure why I didn't since the truck is going to be an item wherever it stands.

She drives into a rank of Mercs and BMs, cuts the engine. I'm thinking about what comes next when she knocks the stick into neutral and cranks on the parking brake. The sudden silence is kind of a shock. She didn't want to go home. Be a gentleman, Edward. I try on a smile and a choked laugh escapes at the very idea. My hand finds my hair, I stop it half way through, irritated at a nervous tic I never managed to kick. I probably look demented. All I want to say is come on up, it would good to have the company, but the way it sounds in my head is cheesy and crass.

"Thanks for the ride, I walked – to the bar I mean. I have coffee if you want to stop by for a bit?" I'm staring at her heels in the foot well and then her bare feet next to the pedals. Her toenails are painted what looks like a pearlescent grey under the harsh florescent lighting of the garage. I don't remember what color her fingernails were. Her fingers dance on the steering wheeI, shining tips glittering in turn. I tear my eyes away to find hers. The silence is deafening. "If you don't want to go home? God, I sound like such a moron. It would help if my voice worked properly.

"Thanks, that'd be great." Her voice is low, but she sounds like she means it. Her eyes are watchful, determined, they slide to my lap and away, I'm sure of it. Hollows under her cheekbones throw her jaw into light relief, she looks fragile and half grown from the neck up. I would map her bone structure with my fingers to recreate it if she would only let me. Below is all woman, from the way her chest presses against the top of her dress, to the smooth expanse of thigh that shifts as she turns to face me. It's so short she could leave it on and it would barely get in the way. My breath out is way louder than I would have liked, I can hear it over the rasp of her pulling the key from the ignition. She leans over and I grapple for the door to let myself out before I do something stupid. Between the speed of my exit and the drop, I half land on the side of my ankle and bite back a groan, it hurts like a son of a bitch.

All she does is reach for the shoes and now I feel like an ass for not offering to get them for her while getting an eyeful down the top of her dress. I see her watching me and not saying anything - there might even be the slightest smile there, but I could be wrong. I've been wrong before. I stretch my neck, scratching at my jaw. I'm a little rough, but it doesn't seem to be putting her off any. Coffee is going to be trouble, I can just feel it. Kate slips in and out of my mind, mostly the damage she left behind. Being around Kate never felt like this, wanting to be nearer and afraid to ask.

"Could you get the other one for me?" her voice snaps me out of my reverie, she gestures with the one shoe she already has, to the other, closer to the door and me than her.

"Sure," I stoop without thinking about it, suddenly surprised at the feel of her warm fingers catching my face under the chin. My eyes snap up at the pressure pulling me gently towards her. I brace a hand on the door sill, unprepared and off balance, my fingertips brush against the heel of the discarded shoe. Her fingers tighten a little and shoe retrieval gets ranked a whole lot further down the 'to do' list.

"I'd like to try something before we go up," she murmurs, eyes firmly locked on my mouth.

"And what is that?" The position is awkward as hell, but I'm damned if I'm moving.

She shifts closer, I can feel her breath against my lips.

"We sort of got interrupted in the bar."

"Interrupted?" Her lips are so close now, they brush mine as she whispers.

"Interrupted."

My lips catch at hers, but she remains tantalizingly out of reach. I re-brace, on the edge of the seat as she moves back on the seat and into the truck, taking me with her.

"Was I a bet?" I'm an odd pick I would say, never thought much of how I look. I know my way around a conversation, but she wouldn't have known that at the time. I don't dress expensively with the exception of a fascination for cufflinks and I left them upstairs on the counter top when the clay went in the fridge. I try and put it aside, I'm half in, half out, teased and liking it. Her eyes are alight, overwriting the memories of the embarrassed look in her eyes when she approached me in the bar. This suits her far better, she should always look like this.

Her soft mouth plucks at my bottom lip, my free hand traps itself in her hair at the base of her neck, stopping her from backing up any further. I think she says, "more" as our lips finally meet, soft and sweet she tilts her head, finally leaning in instead of away. I don't know what that means, more than just a bet or more attention. Everything falls away, everything except her mouth, her hands.

She hums quietly and I take it as a sign, asking with the tip of my tongue and getting what I want, her lips, parted. It doesn't take long for things to get a little heated. Her hand snakes up, behind my neck and before I know it my hips press an increasingly uncomfortable bulge in my pants into the edge of the seat. I urge her forward, getting her to slip into the passenger seat and I take advantage, circling the thin skin around the sharp jut of her ankle bone gently with the knuckle of my thumb. By the way her grip tightens into my hair, I'm guessing I'm doing ok.

Slowly her tongue mirrors my actions, starting a slow rhythmic movement against my own. I can hear myself grunt in approval. I should be sweet talking or something, but all I can manage is a shallow, "upstairs?"

"Not yet," she twists her body, slipping her legs sideways so that they face the open door and splaying them apart, moving me around by the collar to end up between them. It doesn't take much to pull her towards the very edge of the seat and press forward, leaning her back on the seat and half hovering over her.

"There are cameras," I start, trying to explain why we should move somewhere more comfortable. I'm not sure where they are, or what this would look like, but it can't end well. I can just imagine this going via the concierge somewhere I'd really rather it didn't. Not because of what we are doing, but because of what Kate might try and get out of it.

Her eyes are half closed and lips swollen, half open. I press closer, giving her reasons to relocate I hope, not excuses. She bucks a little, her knees coming up to grip me briefly and her breath comes in out in a sharp pant. I'm not quick enough to catch her under her knees and settle for resting my palms just above each one instead.

"Good," she breathes, moving her hands to run through the hair on the top and back of my head, scratching lines that makes the hairs on the nape of my neck rise because it feels so very right. Across and over my shoulders they finally rest and biting her lip, she pushes me away and _down._

My lips find her collar bone, my tongue the shallow dent of the super-sternal notch and her leaping pulse. Her body wash is strawberry and spice, her skin the softest pillow for my kisses. Her shoulders flex backwards, shivering, I want to linger over the slight spill of the top of her breasts, teasing it with a gentle swipe of my emerging stubble, but the push is there again, away, _down_ with it. Her scent fills my every corner, the warmth from her exposed skin heating under my touch, heating me, burning away the sour taste of loneliness.

Here, the line in satin over silk demarcates the underside of her breasts. Lower, where I estimate the center line of her stomach and its midway point to be, at the peak of the gentle rise in her belly, all deserve my undivided ministrations. The thin fabric is no mask for her skin, curving away in a hurried gasp.

My palms drift up her thighs, thumbs circling inside against the softest skin, wanting to be sure. Giving her plenty of time to be sure. I can feel her heat on my fingertips as they brush against cotton and lace.

I look up, into her flushed face wanting confirmation.

She whispers my name and it sounds like 'please.'

My cock twitches at the idea of going down on her, Kate hated me doing this to her and I never got to the bottom of why. I have to adjust myself briefly to relieve some of the pressure, even if only temporarily. There is a genuine risk of me losing it. I palm my balls as best I can, dragging the heel of my hand down against them through the fabric, not that it does much good, but the friction feels great. My hand goes back on her thigh, higher up.

I watch her face nervously, dragging my pointer finger down the center of the cotton and back up, rewarded with damp heat. The thumb of my other hand sweeps under and along the lace in the crease of the thigh, finding plump, hot skin, tight curls and goosebumps rising to meet my touch. Her eyes flutter briefly shut.

"Yes," she hisses, her hips jerk as my finger presses in, she scrambles to reposition, supporting herself on her elbows so she can see me better. I know what she wants. I can give her this. Or more.

"Here?" I whisper. "Right here?" My thumb sweeps up, under covers of modesty no longer enjoyed but annoying. The pad of my thumb slips, slides in a slow circle, closer to the center and up, high against the bridge of slick flesh.

"God, yes!"

My cock is dying a slow and painful death, gone sideways in a bid for space, now leaking a pitiful plea. Keeping it under control means screwing my abs up so tight I can only use the top half of my lungs to breathe. Under her watchful gaze I lower my head and leave open kisses along her inner thigh.

"Like this? Why me?" Right now I'd settle for less, but some part of me would like to be more than some random selection. I nip softly at her panties. She could have anyone she wanted looking the way she does, all she needed to do was lose the air stealing asshole behind the bar.

"My friend said you'd be good. God, don't stop!"

I hum against her skin. I can't say as I recognized her friend. "Got a thing for danger?" I drag my nose along the crease of her leg, thinking about the fire in her eyes and the chase, the massive clang of metal against metal when she shot out of the parking lot and how this could have ended. I bury my face between her thighs, searching with my lips for the folds and ridges that make up a girl and the best place to be.

She pants out sharply when I find what I'm looking for. "Got a thing for my own decisions. There, God, right there!" comes out as a strained whisper. She slips further against the seat, towards me and off her elbows. Her arm nearest the backrest gets slung across her eyes and her hips jerk again when I mouth her harder. Her groans go straight to my cock.

Frustrated with layers and a self-imposed restriction on how far I'd take this in a public place, I pull her panties across to one side and let her feel my breath where she wants me. One knee comes up, unsure and shaking. I slip a shoulder under, driving it against her body and my face against her wet heat until she calls for me in urgency, legs stiffening and back arching up and into me, smeared with her until I am breathing only her and her alone.

"Edward!"

Breathing hard to avoid losing it, I slump, the side of my face against her quivering belly.

A/N c1 lost the scene dividers. I'll repost. Apologies


End file.
